Writing
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Hollowed eyes, thin paper hearts.And what were you waiting for,under all that rubblebrought free from your mind?A lonesome answer,given, and then brought down to dust,while you cling to tragedies, maladies,a malignant purpose, a white-water dreamin this clogged void, where allhave called you,while you left. Screams still come, come fromyour nakedness in these coldesthours of you…
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Down these stretches.Stretched upon your marksof infantile desertion, wateredin your birth of other,newer abandonment – one thatleaves you open for another, another dagger to fuelletters scrawled into desire,your pain in a rancid heart. Desert – water those flowers,pink, scentedand powerless. You are scarred,watermarked and left tragicin your leaking wound. An inborn, sacred maladyyou must keep…
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Wild change, summer’s pleato bring me aside,to space me apart from whenyou went by. You were those windsinvisible between fingers,arranged among a loose graspwith remembrance to what you woreupon nights of passion,heated to adore. Those sounds in the lush rush,rapid in all those footsteps,yet you hushed melike a child with a believed fable,among a heart…
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Let me loose. Whatever spillsshould be as dark as this chosen midnight,over a page as white as emptied clouds,turning fair, equal,at daylight’s stream. I run, though I have walked.I have attempted to talkwithout words passing throughthose ears that never absorbedmeaning for what remainedto trail, behind themlike chains, like stains along that path,paved with blinded, black…
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Deep seas, closing wounds.Endless paragraphs for morepages to this uncertainty.A time to hurt. A time to disconcert.Another time for flowers to closebefore petals can rush downstream,dropped from a mother’s arms. I can hold hope open like a book,with its mere cover as a shield,emptied of details from within.I can burn no pages,choosing to conceal tearswith…
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Each teardrop on a salted road,counted, as if to ice it will become.To an ocean – they were meant to be swallowed,among all pain that could not have beenthis weak, that hollow. Stains upon these hands,grafted, where all that had been heldhas been released onto endless lands. We are explored, you and I,to all brinks…
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Wait, on your plastic road – roses are grown,temporary to being that concern for ephemeralunity. In your wanting death,wait under your labored breath,facing clouds, none too emptyto call a solid home. Face what soars, if foranother moment to envision birdswhile your wings are crippled into dust.I will not leave, in buildinga ring of eternal flame,circling…
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Mortal wounds. Wideness, among arms,folding around good things grown,finding a heart clashing against blank walls,an echo as universal wake-up calls, and toss this temperamentsomewhere, where this worldcan keep emptying. Bringing up, growing upfossilized stab wounds into chestsburied in mortality’s game,love’s last name. I am cheating on another grainin a lovelorn ocean. I am handingice for…
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I swear you had – at those spaces, you hadfelled tears at smaller rainfalls, lessened storms,remembered where to walkyour limping gait, to that final stopwhere you were meant to waitfor another smile to bring you clear skies,for another pair of eyesto send you apart from bitterness. I swear it, that when you were less tragic,you’d…
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Falling snow.A feeling from letting goof that hand that drifted,beyond waters, a shallownessamong that mist, given a wallto conceal her call. What else can she,among her eternity,ever desire to know?Life has heldonto her dresses,staying there like leeches,while she coughs out snowflakes,a sign of surrendering scenes. Leaves are matchingwith all white against her temples,flurried there, clashed…
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Broken – letters smeared,weeping with what we endeared,expecting to keep removingimperfections from those lessonsthat we didn’t offer our eyes,while we settled on lies. Leaving ruins, returningto a home covered in dust,letting rust connect –color of blood, reusing that flood,teardrops of all shades,entertaining our way. Our haste to keep rememberingall reused lettering in abstractdescriptions, fading meaning…
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A set of dying eyescrumbling, like worn paper.Old news, for another dayin leaving droplets of dark inkas another messagefor an infinite, despairing world,rotates in all blank footsteps, while none can calm aches –those sores of a man without his cane,his last limb to plod another course,a path of an unknown mile. Dark vision has been…
Modern Romanticism 